Night Blooming

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “I have no doubt,” said Rakoczy, and started into the courtyard. “I always like your horses.”

  “That’s because you taught me all I know about them,” said Olivia candidly.

  Before he could answer her, the attire-woman hurried up, a full length of blue-green silk in her hands. She reverenced Olivia and then Rakoczy, and finally Gynethe Mehaut, saying as she did, “Here is the silk, Bonna Dama.”

  Olivia took the material and opened it, then lifted it over Gynethe Mehaut’s head, pulling at the fabric to make it drape evenly. “You’ll become accustomed to it, and it won’t impair your vision very much. Just keep hold of the corners, or the wind may carry it away.”

  Gynethe Mehaut stroked the shining cloth. “This is so very fine,” she said, her voice hushed.

  “As well it should be, for what it cost,” Olivia responded. “Go on, now. And don’t be flummoxed by the Bishop. His authority may be great in Franksland, but here in Roma he is just another Churchman, and there are many greater than he.”

  They had reached the courtyard, and the biga was waiting for them, a handsome if old-fashioned two-horse chariot, well-made and beautifully ornamented with carving and paint. The blue roans hitched to it were glossy, their manes and tails combed, their harness newly waxed; they were alert without being jumpy, needing only one groom to hold their heads.

  “As fine as any you have ever bred, no matter what I did or did not teach you about horses,” said Rakoczy as he stepped into the biga and gathered up the reins. Adjusting his stance for balance slightly behind the wheels, he said, “This is very well-sprung.”

  “I’ll tell Niklos—he designed the system,” said Olivia.

  “Do that, and thank you.” He reached out to help Gynethe Mehaut step into the chariot beside him. “Be of good cheer, Olivia.”

  “Of course,” she said, and took a step back, but could not resist adding, “Keep to the main streets and don’t challenge the Lateranus Guard: they are on their mettle, and look for excuses to fight. It won’t help either of you to give them a reason. I will expect you before Vespers unless you send a messenger to say you are delayed. And if you are, hire an escort to protect you. Not even you should be abroad after dark without protection.” She signaled her mansionarii to open the gates and watched as Rakoczy put the team in motion and headed out into the square of the Temple of Hercules.

  “Are the streets busy?” Gynethe Mehaut asked, trying to see the confusion in the street through the thick veil of silk.

  “Fairly so,” said Rakoczy, expertly guiding the biga through the throng of men, horses, donkeys, dogs, geese, and ducks that filled the roadway. “There has been worse.”

  “But it is so noisy,” she remarked, hanging on to the side-rail as tightly as her bandaged hands would allow.

  “And apt to be more so before we reach the Lateranus,” said Rakoczy, using the end of his whip to keep a dog from straying into the path of his pair. “In Constantinople, there would be camels and asses as well as everything we have here.”

  She resisted the temptation to lift the corner of her veil, not wanting to reveal herself to the crowd. “How long will it take us to get there?”

  “Not long,” said Rakoczy. “About half as long as the prayers of None, if there are no delays.”

  “So little time,” she whispered, and quivered.

  “We don’t want the Bishop to have any reason to complain.” Rakoczy turned his team along a broad avenue lined with chapels and small stalls providing food and drink to those on the streets. “If we are not prompt, he will say it’s because you are afraid, and that will not do you any good before the Cardinal Archbishops. No matter what the Church says, the Cardinal Archbishops are the men who must concern you now. The Pope may make the final decision, but the Cardinal Archbishops are as powerful as he, and he is at Spoleto.” He checked the horses, noticing confusion ahead of them.

  “What is it?” Gynethe Mehaut stared ahead, seeing only running men and a massive shape blocking their passage.

  “A carpentum has overturned, by the look of it; it’s blocking the way. They’re trying to unyoke the oxen now,” said Rakoczy. “If we don’t want to be trapped here by the wagons and horses behind us, we’ll have to go down one of the side-streets.”

  “But Bonna Dama Clemens said we shouldn’t—” Gynethe Mehaut protested.

  “If she were with us, she would do the same,” said Rakoczy, clucking to the horses to get them to back up. “We would be in more danger immobilized in this crush than going around it, I assure you.”

  “Very well,” she said, and hung on as Rakoczy pulled the biga around and started down a narrow street lined with two-story buildings with blank fronts facing the road. There were only a few interruptions in these stone fronts; heavy, wrought-iron gates gave fragments of views of courtyards and atria, but nothing suggested access until they reached the end of the block where the side-street ended and a small chapel marked the convergence of two alleys. “Now which way?”

  “To the north,” Rakoczy declared, and swung the team into the narrow passage. He kept the horses moving at a steady trot, and a short while later entered another broad boulevard that gave onto a jumble of broken buildings and a stagnant fountain. “It isn’t far to the Lateranus,” he said to reassure Gynethe Mehaut.

  She glanced about restively, and blurted out, “Someone is following us.”

  “Very likely,” said Rakoczy. “We can’t be the only ones trying to get around that jamb.” He spoke steadily enough, but he, also, felt a twinge of apprehension.

  “There are gangs who live in the ruins, or so Bonna Dama Clemens—”

  “Yes, Gynethe Mehaut. I know about the gangs,” said Rakoczy, trying not to be too brusque.

  “Yes; of course you do,” she said, and stared straight ahead as he drove toward the bulk of Sant’ Ioannes Lateranus, the spires of which could be seen above the roofs of the buildings around it; it seemed near and distant at once, as if she could reach out and touch it, all the while despairing of ever getting to it. She began to grow anxious. “How much farther?”

  “About six or seven blocks, as I remember,” said Rakoczy. He urged the team to a faster trot, paying no attention to the way in which the biga jounced over the paving-stones.

  They had almost reached a sizeable square when a pair of men in rough capae and banded tibialia came rushing out of the wreckage of an old house and into the path of the biga; both were carrying small brass shields, and they used them to flash light in the horses’ eyes, throwing the pair into disorder.

  “Hold on!” Rakoczy ordered Gynethe Mehaut as he reached for the sword that was usually kept in the scabbard of the biga; the weapon was missing. He cursed in his native tongue and took hold of the lash of the whip; wrapping the long, braided-leather thong around his arm and using the stiffened handle as a long staff, he tried to drive off the two men, only to discover that there were two more behind him. He veered around, swung the whip-handle, and had the satisfaction of hearing it crack on bone; one of the men behind them put his hands to his jaw and began to wail in pain. While the others faltered, Rakoczy used the whip-handle again to thump into the chest of the second man behind them; he kept the reins short so that instead of running, the blue roans reared, lashing out with their iron-shod hooves, neighing in distress.

  “Get the White Woman!” one of the men shouted, reaching out for the biga.

  The man whose chest had been hit by the whip-handle coughed repeatedly but gamely tried to grab her arm; he missed his chance and staggered back, winded.

  “They’re going to kill us,” Gynethe Mehaut cried, clinging to the rail and struggling to remain standing.

  “No, they’re not,” Rakoczy said as he pulled the reins on his team to turn them toward the nearer attacker in front; the on-side horse came down on all four feet, narrowly missing the rough-clad man’s shoulder, and the off-side roan almost fell over; he scrambled, pulling at the bit, and kicked back at the front of the biga, leaving
a clear impression of his hoof in the carved wood. Rakoczy raised his hand holding the reins as high as he could, keeping the horses’ heads up so they would not fall.

  The man on the off-side rushed forward, a long dagger raised as he went for the off-side horse; he was intent upon crippling the animal and incapacitating the biga altogether; he reckoned without Rakoczy’s whip-handle, which came down on his shoulder, cracking his clavicle upon impact. The man screamed and fell backward, rolling into a ball.

  “If I were you,” Rakoczy said to the man on the on-side front, “I’d run while I still could.” He swung the whip suggestively.

  The man threw a wad of ox-dung at Rakoczy, shouting, “Fucker of swine! Get of a she-camel!” even as he bolted and ran.

  Two of the remaining men were badly hurt, and one was dizzy from the blow to his jaw. He staggered to the nearest of his fallen comrades and tried to lift him, only to go down on his knees beside him. “You’re a devil!” he shouted at Rakoczy.

  “All the more reason to beware me,” said Rakoczy as he unwound the whip-lash from his arm and took the handle once again. “Tell whoever sent you what happened here.”

  “Sent us?” The man with the bruised jaw was finding it painful to talk, but the flush in his face came from more than pain.

  “Do not suppose I am stupid,” Rakoczy said cordially. “You followed us from the overturned carpentum. That means you intended to waylay us and no others. Did you arrange for the accident on the road, or was that just a happy circumstance you used to your advantage?” He steadied his horses. “Move aside, Bellatori, or I will be forced to drive over you.”

  The three men scrambled to the sides of the roadway, pressing back against the stones as the biga went on down the street—the horses at a rapid but controlled trot—and turned at the corner.

  “Did they follow us?” Gynethe Mehaut asked, fascinated.

  “Judging from the response we had, I assume they did,” Rakoczy said dryly. “They called you the White Woman, although you’re completely veiled, so they must have been told to waylay us specifically. They knew who you are.”

  “Then you didn’t see them follow us?” She was surprised by his remark.

  “No, but it seemed a useful ploy, and so I—” He gestured to show how quickly he had acted.

  “I was frightened. I thought you’d be killed,” she admitted. “Four evil men … but you stopped them.”

  “It takes more than those men to kill me,” Rakoczy said grimly. “Fire will do it, and beheading, or anything that breaks my spine above my heart. But those men?” His laugh had no humor in it. “They have no notion how to fight me, let alone kill me. So long as I have my native earth in my shoes, sunlight cannot burn me, and I had the advantage of this biga and two fast horses. If we had had to flee, they could not have caught us.” He knew there were any number of ways the four men might have disabled the geldings, or damaged the biga, but they had made the mistake of supposing their attack would be easy because there were four of them against a single man and a woman. He maneuvered the biga around a group of artisans pulling carts of their goods and supplies, then added, “Olivia did well to warn us.”

  “Oh, yes,” Gynethe Mehaut agreed, wiping her brow with the linen around her hands. “I must remember her kindness in my prayers.”

  Rakoczy shook his head. “I wouldn’t mention that to her.” They were almost to the square in front of Sant’ Ioannes Lateranus; Rakoczy pulled the roans to a walk and made his way around the side of the building to the gate that led to the Pope’s living quarters. He saluted the Lateranus Guards in the old Roman manner and said, “I bring Gynethe Mehaut to answer the summons of Bishop Iso.”

  The nearest Guard looked narrowly at Rakoczy, mentally taking stock of his appearance and manner. He shifted his lance to his left hand and said, “A groom will look after your chariot.”

  “See they have water, if you will,” Rakoczy requested.

  “Yes,” said the nearest Guard automatically. “And you are—”

  “Hiernom Rakoczy, Comes Sant’ Germainius, in Roma at the behest of Karl-lo-Magne, King of the Franks and the Longobards.” He stepped down from the biga and held his hand out to assist Gynethe Mehaut. “I am appointed her escort by the King himself.”

  The Guards were grudgingly impressed; the shortest of them jutted his chin and studied the blue roans. “Handsome team you’ve got.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” Rakoczy said affably as he put his hand on Gynethe Mehaut’s shoulder to guide her through the gate. “Be good to them in our absence.”

  The nearest Guard opened the gate. “The door is on your left.”

  Rakoczy deliberately reverenced Gynethe Mehaut again as she passed through the door. “It is my honor to attend you.”

  She glanced at him, their gazes meeting through the veil. “Must you be so courteous?”

  “We are at the Papal Court. This demands good conduct,” Rakoczy reminded her, and looked at the peeling frescos on the side of the Lateranus; the building was far from elegant and seemed woefully small to be the Papal residence. Slaves, mansionarii, monks, priests, Archbishops, Cardinal Archbishops, and a few nuns thronged the courtyard between the residence and the side entrance of Sant’ Ioannes Lateranus. A group of pilgrims with crosses sewn on their shoulders were huddled together on the far side of the courtyard, attempting to sing Psalms in the confusion. “The door on the left.” He pointed to a squat-arched entryway. “There must be someone who can direct us—”

  “There is,” said Gynethe Mehaut deploringly; she recognized the figure of Sorra Celinde standing just inside the entrance.

  “That nun?” Rakoczy asked.

  “She is Bishop Iso’s woman. She must be our guide.” She sighed. “I cannot trust her.”

  “I should think not,” said Rakoczy, but continued to walk toward her.

  Gynethe Mehaut faltered. “What do you think? Shall We go or stay? I don’t want to speak to her; she twists my words and seeks to compromise me.”

  “Then don’t turn away, or she’ll assume the worst,” Rakoczy advised as he went directly to Sorra Celinde and half-reverenced her.

  The nun almost jumped. “I didn’t realize it was you,” she said, recovering herself and attempting to smile. “I’m sorry. You did startle me. That veil…”

  For the first time Gynethe Mehaut was glad that she was still wearing it. “Bishop Iso summoned us.”

  “So that he may question you before the Pope returns.” Sorra Celinde was attempting to regain her authority. “I will show you to his apartments. They are rather small, but it is because so many other Bishops are in Roma just now.” She started up the steep flight of stairs.

  “The Pope will be back before the Mass of Christ,” said Rakoczy. “No wonder so many of them want to be here.” He reverenced the nun to take the sting out of his observation.

  Sorra Celinde glared at him. “I know about you, Magnatus. I didn’t realize you would be with Gynethe Mehaut.”

  “Surely you didn’t expect her to walk the streets alone,” Rakoczy said.

  “We were attacked by roughians on our way here,” Gynethe Mehaut blurted out, stopping on the narrow tread. “If not for Rakoczy, I should never have lived to reach this place.”

  Sorra Celinde looked at Rakoczy. “You fought them off?”

  “There were four of them,” said Gynethe Mehaut. “They followed us.” She stopped talking suddenly, as if she had realized she was saying too much.

  “Four men attacked you?” Sorra Celinde asked Rakoczy, continuing to climb.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “And you escaped them?” The nun looked dismayed.

  “In a manner of speaking,” said Rakoczy, helping Gynethe Mehaut to continue up the stairs.

  “He fought them,” said Gynethe Mehaut, feeling compelled by an external force.

  “Four against one?” Sorra Celinde was skeptical and surprised at once.

  “We were in a biga,” said Rakoczy, as if that explained
his victory.

  They were at the top of the stairs now and making their way along a narrow, ill-lit corridor. Distant chanting filled the air, although it was not the time of devotions. A dozen monks came down the hallway, large scrolls in their hands; they argued in the dialect of Carinthia, paying no attention to Sorra Celinde, Gynethe Mehaut, or Rakoczy.

  “Bishop Iso requires a short while to prepare himself for this interview,” said the nun as she pointed to a door. “If you will wait there, he will call upon you shortly.”

  By which, Rakoczy thought, the Bishop needs time to put a spy at a watch-hole to observe them. “We are here at the Bishop’s pleasure,” he said smoothly, and guided Gynethe Mehaut into the reception room, which was little more than a cubiculum.

  “Why are we—?” Gynethe Mehaut asked, only to go silent at a gesture from Rakoczy.

  “Sit down, Bonna Dama,” said Rakoczy, maintaining a formality that no one could fault. “I hope they will send a slave with water and wine; if we must wait, it would be appropriate to let us be comfortable.”

  “I don’t care what they provide,” said Gynethe Mehaut. “And why should you?”

  “If we are guests here, the Pope owes us courtesy, or his Court does.” Rakoczy sounded indignant, and he took a turn about the room as if annoyed. When he came back to Gynethe Mehaut’s side, he leaned down and whispered, “There are two peep-holes.”

  Gynethe Mehaut’s hands clenched. “This is maddening.”

  “Then we shall complain to Great Karl, when he comes to Roma.” Rakoczy continued to pace. “It is grossly insulting to be detained like slaves.”

  “It may be the Bishop wishes to allow me to compose myself in prayer. Better that I should recite the Psalms than regale myself with the Pope’s wine.” She looked up at him. “This is a most imposing place.”

  Rakoczy thought of how grand Roma had been before, and the other splendid places he had seen over the centuries, from the Temple of Imhotep to the palaces of Peiking: the Lateranus was far less than the others. “It was intended to be.”